


Snow Fall

by alyse



Category: Alice (2009)
Genre: Community: fandom_stocking, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:25:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyse/pseuds/alyse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Hatter is smart and Hatter is devious.  He's quick with a quip and quick with his fist, and it turns out that when it comes to aiming, he's just as deadly with a snowball as with either of the former.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pouncer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouncer/gifts).



> For [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/thepouncer/profile)[**thepouncer**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/thepouncer/), for her [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/fandom_stocking/profile)[**fandom_stocking**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/fandom_stocking/).

**Title:** Snow Fall  
 **Author:** alyse  
 **Fandom:** Alice (SyFy 2009)  
 **Pairing:** Alice/Hatter  
 **Rating:** G  
 **Word Count:** ~630  
 **Warnings/Spoilers:** No warnings. No spoilers.  
 **Disclaimer:** Property of SyFy, not me  


-o-

Hatter is smart and Hatter is devious. He's quick with a quip and quick with his fist, and it turns out that when it comes to aiming, he's just as deadly with a snowball as with either of the former.

The first snowball hits Alice on the back of her neck and she closes her eyes, counting slowly to ten. When she turns around, Hatter's hands are folded behind his back and he's actually whistling under his breath, lips pursed innocently. As acts of nonchalance go, this is by far and away - away and far - the worst she's ever seen. He looks shifty at the best of times; this isn't Hatter at his best, and he shuffles self-consciously as she continues to stare at him.

"What was that?" she asks eventually, when his expression is suitably sheepish, provided, of course, that he was a sheep that had suddenly realised that the truck he was on wasn't heading to greener pastures. Her voice is calm and even, and that just makes him twitch a little more, her little fish on a hook.

"What was what?" He's weighed it up and come out swinging, face the picture of innocence edged with glee. It's infectious, and she swallows down the smile that wants to slide out onto her face. It will only spur him on to even more ridiculous heights, and he's perfectly capable of doing that without any prompting from her.

She tilts her head and watches him instead, keeping her expression on just the right side of severe. He twitches again and now she smiles, small and satisfied, like the cat that got the cream coloured canary.

"That," she says, her voice still calm, still even. "That very pathetic attempt at a snowball."

He splutters and recovers, but his expression is mulish as he tilts his chin, hat perched precariously on the back of his head. "I don't know what you mean," he says but there's a light in his eye, stubbornly gleaming.

She harrumphs under her breath and looks away. Consciously looks away, not missing the way his eyes track the move or the way that his fingers curl, a little automatic twitch as he fights his baser instincts. If he was closer, those fingers would be pressing against her skin, warm even though the gloves he wears are fingerless.

"We're going to be late," she says, and he huffs out impatiently, his breath crystallising whitely in the chill afternoon air. But she wins this victory; he tucks his hands into his pockets and strides past her, onwards, always onwards. His shoulders are curled and the sound of his footsteps echoes back to her, crunching into the softly fallen slow.

Her aim is as good as Hatter's, better even; the snowball she throws, fast and overhand (like her father taught her, way back when) knocks his hat straight off his head.

She can't hold in the giggle when he spins on his heels, staring at her open-mouthed. She catches it in her hands instead and, when his mouth closes and quirks dangerously, and he stalks towards her through the snow, she offers it to him with palms wide open. He grins, wide and hungry, and she turns to flee but her legs are shorter and her boot treads less secure than his. He catches up to her easily when she slips and flounders in calf-deep snow, sweeping her off her feet.

They tumble down, down, down into soft, billowing whiteness, and it slips down her neck and into her face, wetting her cheeks like laughter. He grins at her again, his eyes as soft as their landing; his fingers are warm as he traces them over her lips, thumb catching in a caress.

His mouth is warmer still, and something in Alice has long since melted.


End file.
